That yes, the Devil’s Patriots could be assholes. They could be incredibly politically incorrect, full of toxic masculinity, and full of members that wouldn’t fit into anywhere else in society. They could easily make even the most open-minded of women clutch their pearls, and all of the women would have a very good reason for doing that.
But just because theycould bethat didn’t mean theywerethat.
I found it far more accurate to say that they were tough, rough, but fair. They were brutal because life had made them this way, and once you found your way into their circle, they protected you from everything. They were politically incorrect, but they didn’t say it to offend. They just said it because it took the least amount of thought. There was a difference between the person who deliberately antagonizes and the person who just doesn’t give a fuck about what was said, and that was the difference between an asshole and a Devil’s Patriot.
And that was what the piece I would make would show.
Now, I just had to figure out how to make it in the next forty-eight hours.
* * *
I told Satan I was too busy with work. He wasn’t very happy with me and taunted me with the things he’d do to my body. I had to stop responding at some point, not because they were annoying, but because they were working too well.
I told Leigh the same thing. She complained that I was spending the prime of my life slaving away at meaningless work, jobs that wouldn’t do jack shit for me down the road. She only texted once, but I didn’t say anything back, more afraid that she might be right than anything else.
Even Melissa tried to call, and I had to tell her I was busy with work. Of all the people I had to dismiss, she was the easiest and the quickest. It was probably for the best that she didn’t know that I was working on a piece about the Devil’s Patriots.
Or that, you know, I had slept with their president, a close friend of her ex-boyfriend.
I went through so many cups of coffee that I actually ran out of grounds at my house, and that didn’t happen without some serious consumption. By the time I went to bed Sunday at five a.m., setting my alarm for three hours later, I’d almost finished my version of the video, but I knew it would have mistakes I’d overlooked. It was virtually impossible to produce something of professional quality that quick.
Put it this way. Under ideal circumstances, one minute of film done perfectly would take me an average of two hours. Some of the shots would go by quicker and some slower, but that was reasonable. I had come out to roughly eleven minutes of film by the time I went to bed, and it had easily taken more than twenty-two hours’ worth of work. I wanted this to be perfect.
And I knew that they’d still ask me to do new voiceovers for the video’s debut on the five o’clock news.
And was I getting overtime? If it went viral, would YouTube pay me?
Nope. It would all go to the studio. It would all go to anyone but me, who would continue to live on a salary that would make McDonald’s line cooks cringe.
Someday, I told myself in the moments of most frustration, this would build to something better. Someday, maybe I could become a YouTube star. Someday, maybe I could build to being a national reporter on a national stage with actual, livable pay.
But that “someday” was not right now, and it was frustrating for more than just economic reasons.
When the alarm went off at eight, I hit snooze. Thankfully, my snooze only lasted ten minutes. But I hit again. And again. And again before finally getting up right as the clock struck 8:41. I was ornery and cranky; maybe today was the day I’d tell Mr. Roberts to stick his stupid-ass metaphors up his dickhole.
I went downstairs, brewed another cup of coffee—this time with a triple shot of espresso—and ran through the piece one more time. It was balanced and fair. Satan wouldn’t love it, but if he kept his temper in check, perhaps he’d appreciate it.
Or at least not hate my guts for it.
I saved it to my desktop, hit submit through our software, and felt like I would collapse into my desk. But the nature of journalism was that my day still wasn’t done. I called an Uber, a proposition that was too expensive for me but far safer than putting me behind the wheel, only to cancel it and pay the fee when it was halfway there when I realized Mr. Roberts would still make me drive to something else. I mustered the energy to drive to the office, got there, and used all of my willpower to make it through the day.
A day in which I was never asked once to do any further voiceover work. In fact, it was a day that Mr. Roberts said I could spend at home for my work, though naturally, I was still on call. Never had I felt so tempted to throw something at my boss merely for telling me that I had the day off.
I went home and put my phone inches from my head before passing out for the rest of the late morning and early afternoon. When I woke up, it was just about ten minutes before five. I had no idea what the piece would look like on TV; I saw in my email that Mr. Roberts had sent me the version they’d show on the air, but I decided I’d rather see it on my TV than on a tiny phone screen. I turned on the TV, still lying on the couch.
The afternoon news started as normal, providing the “news of the day”—apparently, a local Walmart had been vandalized, left with the symbol of a crown somewhere—but it was in a part of town that even I, being as poor as I was, knew not to go near. It went through a couple of other important pieces, gave a traffic update, before finally saying what I wanted to hear.
“Coming up next, what are the Devil’s Patriots really like? Reporters Hailey Cook and Joel Redding took a deep dive to find out. After that, sports and weather.”
Joel Redding? How the…
I knew Joel. Joel was a wonderful gay guy, a good friend at the station. But Joel did not work with me. Joel’s name had never come up in the discussion of these segments.
Had I missed something?
I scrambled to check my emails. I didn’t have anything at all to suggest that Joel would be doing some work. I didn’t dare call Mr. Roberts in the middle of the five o’clock show, so I instead called Joel.
“Hailey?”
